


silence in my blood

by aosc



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, FFXV Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-15 05:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11799603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: “I hereby reclaim the Fenestala High Seat, my ancestral birthright, as well as the Tenebraen crown.”Her voice shakes, but barely. She has discarded her nerves on the stairs before her: now, she only imagines the mechanics. How she lifts her hands above her waist, above her chest. How she places the crown on her brow. How the weight of the gold pushes on her temples, but how it does not slip down to crowd her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Not anymore.She says: “I declare myself Lunafreya of House Nox Fleuret,Queenof Tenebrae, The First of My Name.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely anon who prompted luna as queen, reclaiming her throne from niflheim during a coup ( _http://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3892.html?thread=5001524#cmt5001524_ ). this was an awesome prompto to work with, and tbf, cunning, kind hearted luna who coups herself back into power is Everything We Deserved But Never Got out of ffxv. for real.
> 
> TRACKS:
> 
> cold as it gets — patty griffin  
> on the sea — beach house  
> your protector — fleet foxes  
> falcons — amanda bergman

* * *

  
Sunlight spills through the large, carved windows on the far wall. It stripes through motes of dust. The guards posted by the windows shift ever so slightly, ever so often, made uncomfortable by the motionless heat.

 

She has grown used to the noise that armor makes when it shifts. How a hauberk rasps against the inside of a breastplate, or how a shoulder guard settles, rests against a throat covered in chainmail. These are the noises that have, after all, permeated her childhood the most.

 

The jerking movements of Magitek soldiers, as they patrol the Fenestala borders. Brigadier General Ulldor’s barked orders, ringing out across the Sylleblossom fields on the southern side of the manor. The mechanical whirr of an airship descending from above upon the Oracle’s Grove.

 

Lunafreya swallows around her dry tongue. She keeps her chin level, neither insolent nor subservient. Her robes are starch, and new, against her skin. They’re measured exactly, and offers no stretch for the swell of her hips, or for the widening across her ribs. In a way, she supposes this is _her_ armor.

 

Today, at least, she will especially need such protection. Or perhaps just such assurance, however placebo its effects.

 

The room is crowded. She hasn’t seen this many people gathered since she were a child, beckoned to her mother’s side as she held court before the people of Tenebrae. Lunafreya has not been a prisoner of war for long, but it’s been longer still since this many could afford to make the journey to face the royal family in person. An active conflict, of which you are part, however unofficially, will make itself felt.

 

Now, she looks out across the halls, carved out of the white oak that the entire manor has thus been fashioned, and sees old faces, and new. She sees bitten jaws, and crowded brows. Worried, for what might today occur. For what todays’ occasion will mean. To them — and to the country.

 

“The attending may rise,” says the Niflheim-borne spokesman, “For the High Command of the Niflheim Army stationed abroad, Brigadier General Ulldor, and for his brigade. For Colonel Tummelt. For Captain Nox Fleuret. For First Lieutenant Delner.”

 

Lunafreya does not meet her brother’s eyes. Ravus keeps his gaze far ahead of the company, even as he walks behind the broad shouldered man she knows as the Brigadier General Ulldor, whose brass glimmering shoulder pauldrons should hinder him from seeing ahead. He is tall, Ravus, at eighteen. A grown man. But the Brigadier General, Lunafreya knows, stands at nary seven feet. He is imposing, and well aware of it.

 

The spokesman glances at her. His gaze is cold. “The attending may remain standing, to receive the Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae.”

 

She rises from the high seat slowly, though taking care to not appear tardy. Her heart is beating in her throat. Sweat is beading on the back of her neck. If she looks down, if she allows for her concentration to slip, she knows that it will be the end of her.

 

She still cannot catch Ravus’ gaze.

 

It shouldn’t worry her. After all — she knows that once she does meet her brother’s eye — that will be his cue. There will be no other signal, and thus, he does right by himself to maintain aloofness; a cultivated gap between the two of them. To the Empire, they are estranged, their relationship as eschewed as the physical distance that has been duly maintained between them. Him, a part of the usurper empire’s troops. Her, as the beacon of light. To the public untouchable, so as to not invoke the fury of the people.

 

But worry, as it is, cannot be reasoned with. Fear is not something she can call quietly off. It is instinctual, primal, and she is today in a position of danger. A slight tip of the scales, and she’ll find herself in mortal peril, rather than the opposite.

 

“All attending may be seated,” says the spokesman, “Lest we may — without further ado — begin.”

 

Lunafreya sinks obediently into the high seat once more. She knows that she is to stand for the ceremony, but right now — she bites her lip, and forces the tremors in her knees to still.

 

The spokesman clears his throat. “We are gathered here today to witness the Lady Lunafreya’s Ascension into the position of Oracle. She will succeed her late mother, Sylva Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae.”

 

Lunafreya counts downwards. From ten. Slowly, allowing her eyes to fall shut. The spokesman is continuing, reading from something prewritten, about the historical importance of the Oracle. Not just as a religious icon, but as the woman of her people. Of all — Niflheim as well as Tenebrae-born — people. It molds, and warps, and distorts in her ears. When she comes to four, his words have muddled together into an unrecognizable slur.

 

At one, she resurfaces to herself. She looks, out across the floors. The people — her people, are watching her. Attention rapt, gazes pinning her to the high seat. The arm seats beneath her are worn, scuffed in places, but well maintained. When she grips them momentarily harsher, the pale wood slides soothing beneath her fingers.

 

She remembers: herself, Ravus, four and eight. Her brother is standing in a sluice of sunlight, laughing. The column of his throat is exposed, and his eyes are shut against the apparent hilarity of the moment. She remembers why: she has nicked mother’s crown, and as she has crawled up onto the high seat, it has slumped down into her eyes, crowding against her nose.

 

It’s an odd thing to remember, at a time like this, Lunafreya contemplates. Like two scales: the innocence of days foregone, and the war-ridden times they find themselves in now. Today, mother’s crown is kept safely in the imperial capital city, Gralea. A conquest, after all, is best displayed through what you can acquire as proof of it. For a hunt, it is the acquiesce of the head of the animal, stuffed and mounted. For a plot of land, it is the taking of its stronghold. Of burning former banners and bannermen.

 

For a country, it is dethroning its current head of power. If that means exile or death matters little to the conqueror, she supposes.

 

But conquering, as it is, is a temporary state. Something in motion. A conquest, when concerning a household, or a city, or, as now, an entire country — is a living, breathing thing. Agitate embers with enough fluid, and you will find yourself unable to temper the outbreak of flames.

 

She would prefer to go through with this privately. Far from the amassing of crowds, and from innocent people too close to avoid being caught in the crossfire. But war between states usually involves a lot of people who, at heart, are innocent. Who are just caught in the crossfire. Whether that involves actively being caught out in mortal peril or not is just a matter of time and place.

 

She would prefer to go through this privately. But war, as it is, enables you to be brutally practical. This war has not, and never will, consider the lives of innocent people.

 

And the people here today, Lunafreya knows, are ready to be rid of this war. Of this conqueror.

 

She looks across the room.

 

Ravus meets her eyes. He does not nod, does not move except to angle himself incrementally towards the heart of the group — towards where he must strike to cripple the Imperial guard the most.

 

There is no other signal.

 

She keeps her breath in her throat, and slips from her seat.

 

She sees the ground rush towards her, and knows that if she does not catch herself at the right moment, she will knock herself unconscious. If she catches herself too quickly, the guard, no doubt trained to be able to see through her clumsy attempt at acting, will notice that something is off. But she does not think about what and how and consequences should this fail. She thinks about her movements: how she crouches just as she is about to crash into the floor, and swipes the short blade hidden on the inside of her ankle. How she pushes off the ground, and lunges forth, to where the spokesman has turned and started towards her.

 

She does not think about the fact that this is an innocent person caught up in a conflict he cannot denounce. She only thinks about how she does not have the strength to push through bone, only soft tissue and muscle. She thinks about the mechanics, about keeping her wrist lax until the moment she twists the knife inside —

 

Lunafreya meets him, hand low at her side, and pushes in beneath the lowest of his ribs. She braces her free hand against his shoulder, and steels her wrist as she pushes the blade in. He coughs. A wet gasp follows. She twists the knife, and rips sideways. She thinks she glances against a rib when the blade jars. The spokesman’s breath turns into a moan, weak in quality and already disrupted by blood. She thinks she has most likely punctured a lung. It’ll be messy, but she is not a trained killer. She is desperate, and this is collateral damage she will learn to live with.

 

Shouts filter through the pounding of her blood in her ears. Screams, from the audience. Some will flee, some will stay. Some of the lords that are bound to her through ancient blood oaths still carry ceremonial weapons. She knows that the second her brother and the remnants of the Royal Guard turn on the Niflheim group, they will not hesitate to take up arms.

 

She hears the shift in the air and the stomping of boots before she realizes what it is. She reacts without being consciously aware of her own actions.

 

She pulls the blade from the spokesman’s body and steps backwards. She kicks off her shoes, slip in heels that are easily dislodged, and steps back another few paces, just as Colonel Tummelt skids to a halt at the top of the stairs. He twists to Lunafreya, weighed down by his armor, but aided by how used he is to the pursuit and the battle. His face is distorted in a snarl. He grips a short, blunt firearm in one hand.

 

“ _Princess_ ,” he spits, “What a mess you’ve made.”

 

Lunafreya swallows. She holds the bloodied knife out in front of her. It drips, drops of red like rubies falling from the slope of the blade. She keeps her chin held high. “I am reclaiming what is rightfully mine,” she replies. Her steady tone is hard won, but she stands victorious.

 

Colonel Tummelt smiles. It is cruel. “So you will die as you were born — royalty. Nothing about what you have done here today will matter in moments.”

 

The Colonel stalks forward. Lunafreya backs. They do this until her back hits the side of the high seat. She is breathing quickly, shallowly, though she has not a single wound accredited to her, and though she has not increased her pace.

 

Colonel Tummelt stops two meters from her. His smile becomes fuller. She scans his person, but knows there are no obvious vulnerable spots in his armor that she will be able to reach, were she to launch forward now to attempt to surprise him. He has two heads on her, and an obvious weight advantage. If she throws the knife, it will glance off his armor.

 

She grapples with the strands of divinity at the back of her conscious — the inevitable ties that bind her to her role as Oracle. She does not know much about the extent of her powers that stretch beyond the realm of purely healing. But she thinks that in mortal peril, in danger of her life, they must come to her, somehow —

 

There is a whisper, a breath caught by the whorl of a storm. The world slows until it no longer spins.

 

When Lunafreya blinks from temporary stasis, Gentiana stands before her.

 

She opens her mouth, intent to tell her companion to back off. Gentiana turns her head a fraction. Enough to be able to catch Lunafreya’s gaze. Her eyes are solemn, her face set. “Go, Lunafreya,” she says.

 

Colonel Tummelt, whose sharp intake of breath has died out, ebbed into short bursts of irritation, cocks the hammer on his firearm. “The bullets are designed to pierce titanium,” he snarls, but triumphant, “It matters little if you come to stand between us, _woman_. It will go through you both.”

 

Gentiana turns back, towards the colonel. “You will not pierce us both, Colonel,” she intones calmly, “Since you will not be able to reach us.”

 

Lunafreya sees him at the same moment that Colonel Tummelt realizes he should direct his attention elsewhere, to secure his perimeter.

 

Ravus’ hair is slick in his face with sweat. His chin is mottled with quickly forming bruising, and his breastplate is streaked with blood. When he holds up his weapon of choice, it is a slim rapier, fashioned by the smiths of old from the hardest of Tenebraen metals. He holds it to Colonel Tummelt’s throat. “Yield,” snaps Ravus, and pushes the edge of the rapier into the thin skin just beneath his jaw.

 

Colonel Tummelt holds his breath very slow. He lowers his firearm in increments.

 

“Lunafreya,” says Ravus, without looking at her. “Announce yourself. Now.”

 

For a brief moment, she can’t comprehend what he means. She is caught between their throng of bodies, and down below, the guard is still engaged with the Niflheim army. The singing of steel complements the heady, metallic tang of blood that fills the air.

 

Gentiana turns half towards her. “You are thus destined, Lunafreya,” she murmurs. Lunafreya looks to her, not quite understanding.

 

Gentiana unfolds her hands from the sash that is tied to her hips. In it is a folding of fabric, unremarkably plain. Lunafreya accepts it from her, still holding onto her short blade.

 

She knows what it is as soon as she holds it. Its weight is familiar in the same way that she will always remember the density of the Gods’ wills weighing her down on the eve of her Ascension. In the same way that she will always remember her brother’s screaming, as General Glauca pierces their mother cleanly through the breast, disregarding the armor she wears, and her ribs as the armor for her heart.

 

In the same way that she was raised to the knowledge that she was always to become queen of her lands.

 

Lunafreya unfolds her mother’s crown from the cloth. She does not know how it came to oncemore be in her possession. She can only know that through fate’s design, she is now clutching it to her.

 

She is still breathless, her breath laboring, as she steps around the Fenestala High Seat. Its pale ash tree complexion has become marred with thin streaks of blood. They will sink into the wood, become one with its depth. She dislikes bloodshed, but realizes its necessity today. Realizes that she will want the blood to remain upon the throne, if only to remind her of what happened here today.

 

Lunafreya stabs her knife through the fabric of her dress, where it curves at her waist. It is cream, and now marred. Dusty from the floor and bloodied with the life she has taken here today. Her hands are stained, as well, and smear gold as she grips the crown in both hands. She does not imagine it will go out easily. Scrubbed from the metal, perhaps, but her hands and her legacy will carry what has happened here today for as long as she is alive. Perhaps, for longer than that.

 

She stands straighter. At her side, her brother has pushed his rapier into Colonel Tummelt’s throat until he’s drawn blood. Gentiana stands at her side, surveying the scene before them.

 

The civilian portion of the audience has scattered. Some of her guard has fallen. Most of the Niflheim party is cornered by Tenebraen men and women. General Brigadier Ulldor is pushed up against one of the far pillars. He has grown suddenly lax, stare intent on Lunafreya as she steps forward, to stand just before the High Seat. Her throne.

 

“Stand down, and there will be no more fighting.”

 

Her voice carries though she feels that her knees, soon, will not. Not all of those who are fighting have ceased, but she continues. If she doesn’t, she won’t be able to pick up where she left off. “Stand down — yield to _me_ , and you will be pardoned.”

 

She sees Brigadier General Ulldor’s gaze darken. The three guards that hold him are spread in a crescent before him. Lunafreya raises her chin, and her hands, the crown in them.

 

She looks around. To the corner of the halls, where the Niflheim soldiers have ceased. On the voiceless orders of their generals or no, she cannot tell. But they are dropping the swords and rapiers they, themselves, are carrying. The firearms that they’ve equipped.

 

She looks to the side. To Colonel Tummelt’s face, pale with rage. To Ravus at his back, solemn, his mouth tight with the precarious nature of the moment.

 

Gentiana gently touches her elbow. Lunafreya steps backwards, until the backs of her knees hit the throne. Her arms are stretched out before her. The crown at waist level.

 

“I hereby reclaim the Fenestala High Seat, my ancestral birthright, as well as the Tenebraen crown,” her voice shakes, but barely. She has discarded her nerves on the stairs before her: she only imagines the mechanics. How she lifts her hands above her waist, above her chest. How she places the crown on her brow. How the weight of the gold weighs on her temples, but how it does not slip down to crowd at her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Not anymore.

 

She thinks of the mechanics.

 

She says: “I declare myself Lunafreya of House Nox Fleuret, _Queen_ of Tenebrae, The First of My Name.”

 

*

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  
Lunafreya would like to not have to keep prisoners, but she knows, as well as anybody would, the price to pay for treason. For taking up arms against the sovereign of a country. She knows that the price to pay for her mother — the only reasonable price to be paid for her mother’s death, is death in turn.

 

This is does not mean that she is fond of keeping men chained in dank cells like cattle being readied for the slaughterhouse.

 

“They will stand trial,” she says. She bores her gaze into her brother’s, refusing to let up, “That is my decision. It is thus final, and I do not care to repeat myself.”

 

“Sister — “ begins Ravus. She cuts him off. This is not a fight he will win; as older, as wiser — not as anything, “You will adhere to my title when addressing me, _Captain_.”

 

Ravus bows his head quickly, as though scalded for his insubordination. Lunafreya fights the urge to wince. To somehow show him that this is not what she means. On the other hand, she cannot allow him to speak down to her like this in front of the remainder of the council.

 

It has been a little over two weeks since they reclaimed Fenestala, and the ultimate seat of govern for Tenebrae. While she is heralded across the country as the savior of her people, she finds that being three years shy of coming of age does not currently aid her in that particular role. She is constantly at odds with the Royal Council, who think her decisions either too rash, or too mellow. They find her inconsequential in where she draws her lines, and would rather appoint a Queen Regent until she comes of age. Until she is _taught_ how to rule.

 

“Your Grace — “ begins one of her mother’s most trusted advisors, and a senior member of the council, Master Ferrun, “While the death penalty has not been actively sentenced to any man in the last decades, it does not mean that it does not have its time and place.”

 

Lunafreya inclines her head. “While you are right, Master Ferrun, I do not wish to commit to any rash decisions based off of pure emotion. Slaughtering these men would seem rash, and emotional.”

 

Ferrun bows his head. “Your Grace,” he says, noncommittal. Lunafreya fights the urge to grit her teeth.

 

“The reassembling of the Supreme Court would seem a logical step to take, then, Your Grace?” says a younger member of the council, Devan Tuller, of Piztala.

 

Lunafreya nods. “I would rather they get a fair trial. No matter their crimes, they do not deserve death without being heard.”

 

Master Ferrun nods. “I believe that closes today’s agenda. Unless Your Grace thinks otherwise?”

 

“No,” says Lunafreya. She shakes her head, “That will be all. Thank you, all, for now.”

 

Ravus remains with her as the remainder of the council files out of the meeting chambers. As soon as the door closes behind them, he loses his rigid posture, his formality. Her brother becomes slightly looser.

 

He looks at her. “I did not mean to undermine your authority.”

 

Lunafreya meets his gaze. She smiles slightly. “You don’t have to. You’re my older brother. Somehow, that is a rote instilled in you since my birth.”

 

Ravus doesn’t seem to take her up on her offer of a truce. “I only meant — “ he shakes his head, “No matter. I forget myself.”

 

Lunafreya nods. The crown digs into her temples. When she yields it at night, it has dug deep indents into her skin. She wonders if it will permanently set one day. “I don’t.”

 

“No,” says Ravus, “I cannot imagine you would.” His look at her gold-lined brow is pointed. He looks to her again. “You never could, could you?”

 

This is where they differ, she knows: by Tenebrae’s traditional primogeniture, Lunafreya was promised the throne on the date of her birth, bypassing Ravus despite his status as firstborn. And by blood and tradition, she was promised to the Astrals, succeeding her mother as Oracle. Ravus is a son, and a prince, a brother — but he is no ruler. He is no more than what he is, at the end of the day.

 

“There was never anything to forget,” says Lunafreya.

 

She does not remember forgetting how to be free, despite the fact that she has spent the majority of her life bound to the Empire that conquered them. And she cannot forget how duty weighs on her, how expectations weigh on her, since she has never not been bound to them.

 

“What will you do about Lucis?” asks Ravus, after a while.

 

“I will meet with the King and the Lucian Council, when the time is right.”

 

“Luna, the King — “

 

She shakes her head. “Don’t,” she says, softly. Softer, than before. At the end of the line, after all, they remain sister and brother. Blood is thicker than water. Blood stands above duty.

 

Ravus pulls a hand through his fringe, unruly and long. It’s an admission of mental unrest, unspoken but well there. “He did nothing.”

 

“He could do nothing.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

“It is, and it isn’t. Consider his position, brother.”

 

“Consider _our_ position,” Ravus snaps. He raises his gaze to hold Lunafreya’s, oncemore. “How can you possibly oppose yourself in this?”

 

This is where they are different: where Ravus is allowed to be dictated by his emotions, by his will. Where Lunafreya has to elevate herself to somewhere above emotions. Blood may stand above duty, but her blood runs through her country — is her country. Just as King Regis’ blood becomes his country, runs as veins through his Lucis. Their duty, and their blood, are so tightly interwoven, they might just be one and the same.

 

“We will find no stronger ally,” says Lunafreya.

 

Ravus remains silent. His knuckles are clenched bloodless upon the wooden tabletop. They do not speak further.

 

*

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

  
Word comes with a Niflheim envoy, not a week later, that Emperor Aldercapt believes it lies in their respective — and conjoined — best interests to meet for peace talks.

 

Lunafreya summons her council on the break of day, when the sky is streaked with gold and orange, chasing the remnants of the night away. The envoy disembarks from a small, airborne ship, triangular in design, with the blood red Niflheim crest painted in ornate swipes on its side. They stop on the plain of grass that precedes the manor. It’s not a direct insult, but neither is it a show of humility or respect.

 

“This will not be a display in hostility,” says Lunafreya, flanked as she is by Ravus and Colonel Fengen, as they proceed through the manor, towards the meeting chambers.

 

“Your Grace, we remain in active conflict,” says Ravus.

 

“Which they are upending,” she replies, “They’ve come to sue for peace. According to Captain Aller, their envoy included only the bare minimum of security.”

 

“With all due respect, Your Grace — _Captain Aller_ has not served in the Imperial Army,” argues Ravus, “The Emperor does not believe in peace. You cannot go into this vulnerable and unprotected due to — naïvety, or folly.”

 

She stops. “With all due respect, _Captain_ Nox Fleuret,” she repeats, clearly, “There is an entire army posted in Fenestala. I am neither vulnerable nor unprotected. If the Empire does not want peace, then they shall not have it. I will dictate the terms of their withdrawal from these lands. If that is all, then it will be all. They did not send a small, unarmed envoy to reinforce the terms of their unlawful occupation.”

 

“Your Grace!”

 

Lunafreya turns to see Master Ferrun, and a portion of the Royal Council, at his heels, coming towards them. The elder stops before her. He bows deeply. “I apologize for my tardiness,” he says.

 

“No need, Master,” replies Lunafreya, “They do not have any claim to dictate the terms of this meeting. We can take as much time as we like.”

 

“The quicker we see them from our lands, the better,” mutters Tuller, at Master Ferrun’s shoulder.

 

“Be that as it may, Junior Councilor. But we will not fling ourselves headfirst into any negotiations,” says Ferrun.

 

Tuller inclines his head. “As you say, Master,” he turns to Lunafreya, and bows in turn, “Your Grace. I apologize.”

 

“As you were, Councilor,” says Lunafreya. She gestures forward. “Master, if you would walk with me?”

 

“Certainly, Your Grace.” They fall into step with one another.

 

“I believe we should show restraint towards the Imperial envoy,” says Lunafreya, “All signs point towards a non-hostile confrontation, and that they are willing to meet us on our terms. Captain Nox Fleuret does not think so highly of them.”

 

Master Ferrun hums. “Certainly, the Empire is not lenient with its conquests. Past or present, I do not think that matters to the Emperor. He is usually in favor of displays of strength. His own, typically.”

 

“So then we should prepare for siege? For a larger army to be deployed once we turn our backs?”

 

“No, Your Grace, I do not believe this is the prelude to an ambush. This has Chancellor Izunia’s muddled fingerprints all over it. He is a clever man. He will recognize your claim to the crown, and will most likely accept whatever terms we bring him. Within reason, of course. I cannot believe that, at this time at least, he sees any advantage to prolonging an active conflict that will only cost him men and resources.”

 

“Implying that armistice is more likely than an offer of peace?”

 

Master Ferrun shakes his head. “I do not presume to know what the Chancellor will want to sign. But yes. To play the hand we have been dealt most to our advantage, I would advise you to seek ceasefire, rather than peace. We are inclined towards Lucis as it is, so suing for peace here, and then negotiating an alliance with the Empire’s immediate opposition, will be cause enough for them to dishonor the terms you will want them to agree to.”

 

“Very well,” says Lunafreya. “I thank you for your council, Master.”

 

Master Ferrun bows. “Always, Your Grace.”

 

*

 

She meets the Imperial envoy at the height of midday. It’s small: a handful of guards are stationed around the small campsite they have set up. Chancellor Izunia is its head, and with him, he has brought two of his ministers.

 

Lunafreya doesn’t want this man stepping onto any portion of her lands that she does not explicitly invite him onto. And, given the history between them, it certainly doesn’t have her inviting him anywhere. Thus, she goes to them. It’s lenient, and she hopes they will underestimate her character. She contemplates always being at a disadvantage, but knows that almost guaranteed victory at every turn makes you sloppy. It makes you vulnerable. Perhaps moreso than any other position makes you.

 

She brings Ravus, and Fengen, as well as a small portion of her private guard. Master Ferrun, as her chief council, walks at her shoulder. Her robes, heavily draped cotton infused with cream whip stitching along her sides, are accompanied by a tonal cape that adds to the weight, but not to the burden, that falls from her shoulders. She has donned the most ceremonial of her mother’s crown jewels, the clear crystal crown that elongates in tall spikes from its arched frame. The chains are a little long, falling well beneath her chin, but she thinks of it and of mother and wears it with a swelling of pride in her chest.

 

The setup of two sets of tarp mounted on poles to build a crescent, trident cover houses three chairs across a wide table for Niflheim, and equally many for Lunafreya and her entourage.

 

Chancellor Izunia stands as they enter the campsite. He is dressed lightly for being himself: the black coat is draped across the tall back of his chair, he only retains dark robes and a hat.

 

He makes a sweeping dip when Lunafreya stops just clear of the negotiation site. “ _Lady Lunafreya_ ,” he greets, “How fortune has favored you in these past few weeks. I am unable to do anything but simply marvel at what you managed to accomplish with just a — sleight, of your hand. Truly, truly impressive.”

 

The Chancellor’s ever mocking tone is thinly veiled with saccharine favor. As if he will somehow manage to turn his blatant disrespect into her awe, with just a twist of tongue. Lunafreya understands that he is the strings within the Imperial machine. She is just not quite sure what he hopes to accomplish from there, on this particular day. What his end game is.

 

“I’m afraid I must ask you to adhere to Her Majesty’s official title when in address, Chancellor.” Colonel Fengen’s tone is clipped, only just polite.

 

Chancellor Izunia smiles. “My, how rude of me. Please accept my sincerest apologies,” he bows oncemore, with typical flourish, “You are Queen Lunafreya of Tenebrae now. Certainly, that’s a terrible misstep, to address a _queen_ so blandly.”

 

“It is of no consequence, Chancellor,” says Lunafreya, “I am grateful to meet during these circumstances.”

 

“As you should be, Your Majesty. Please, if you would grace us with a seat at our most humble table.”

 

Lunafreya sits. Ferrun takes her right. The left chair remains empty. She cannot decide if it would be a show of strength, or of familial favor, easy to mock, to seat Ravus in it. When she chances a glance at the Chancellor, he is smiling idly, as though he has caught on to her exact thoughts.

 

She thinks of what the weight of the crystal crown upon her brow means. What it implicates. She sits straighter, if almost imperceptibly so. “I understand you are here to offer your terms of surrender, Chancellor.”

 

Chancellor Izunia tilts his head. He leans back into his chair. “Well, simply put, that is a correct interpretation of why we are now seated here, opposing one another. But as I understand it, Your Grace — _you_ are here to offer _your_ terms of peace.”

 

“Am I?” replies Lunafreya. She maintains the Chancellor’s gaze. “I was not aware.”

 

“Oh?” says Chancellor Izunia, “Am I mistaken?”

 

Lunafreya has to quell the mirthless smile that threatens to bubble to life in her mouth. “One could be forgiven for thinking that peace is a state of existence in which both of our nations cannot any longer be united.”

 

She sees the minute widening of Izunia’s lips. It is enough for her to confirm Master Ferrun’s suspicions: that the Niflheim Chancellor is playing at a wholly different game, than simply one of war and peace.

 

“Indeed, Your Grace. But is it not a state you wish to pursue? For the sake of your people?”

 

“Of course. On my terms, unequivocally. Then certainly, Chancellor, it is peace that I desire.”

 

One of Izunia’s ministers balks, “The audacity — “ but the Chancellor holds up one hand, adorned with thick jewels, to indicate silence.

 

“A bold statement, coming from the newly minted Girl Queen. Very well, the Empire is inclined to listen to it, Lunafreya of Tenebrae; you have shown thus that you are bold. And I find myself at a vast disadvantage, though temporary as it may be. Let me hear your — unequivocal terms, and I shall bring them to council for fair consideration.”

 

Lunafreya weighs his gaze. His intentions, though murky as they remain. Chancellor Izunia waits, head tilted like a bird of prey, surveying mice.

 

“You will surrender all land and every property you have occupied since your unlawful entering into Tenebraen territory. All Imperial troops will withdraw from within the country immediately. Any breach of our borders without an official permit, or otherwise a reason for doing so, will henceforth violate these terms. We would like to regain our travel ways through Niflheim. The sea passage across the Sathersea will, as in the original Trifecta Pact, also be considered Tenebraen territory oncemore. Niflheim will remove its intercontinental border controls, and will concede its lone grip on the industrial market.”

 

She pauses. Chancellor Izunia remains waiting, unresponsive. She continues, “In other words: a complete _status quo ante bellum_ should come into immediate effect, to appease us. You will not meddle in Tenebraen affairs, and unless we come to blows — immediate or no — oncemore, neither shall we meddle in yours.”

 

Lunafreya tries to temper down her heart, which is slowly pushing its way out of her ribcage. It hammers, well up in her throat. The curve of her spine is wet, and she has unconsciously pushed forward, leaning almost over the table.

 

“These are my terms, Chancellor. They are not negotiable.”

 

Chancellor Izunia’s grin widens. Feral and sharp, a seldom shine to his gaze. He bows his head. “Your terms, Your Grace, are nothing short of what I expected from you.” When he looks up again, he looks positively gleeful, as though he’s won this whole game. “You will receive our answer within a fortnight.”

 

*

 


End file.
